The long white line of light the moon has drawn across the dark has worn it down, like any chalk. By now it floats above the nighttime Earth too tired to revise—so this might finally explain our vast imperfect world. But all that's poetical fancy, isn't it? —doodah and piffle and Fabergé eggs. What I…
What draws us to poetry in our early, inarticulate years? Answers to the question must vary. From the days when, as a child, I passively absorbed poetry from songs and hymns and when, as an adolescent, I tried to cobble together my own verses, nudged onto paper in imitation of poems from books, I recall…
He said he'd meet me at the theater, and since the boy in the ticket booth knew Elvis bought all the seats for the late show, he didn't bother to ask if I was Elvis's date or to notice I was the pretty face on all the magazine covers the girls he was too afraid…
A maple leaf with the sun shining through it at the end of summer is beautiful, but not too much so, and even an ordinary electric train passing by nearly three hundred yards away makes music, light and unobtrusive, and yet to be remembered, for some sort of usefulness perhaps, or even instructiveness (the world…
First the white cat named after Indians Slipped in—too fat by half, White marked with five black spots like sudden stones In the snow—poked in through his hidden door. Set flowing through the house a draft, A chill tangled in the winter of his fur. Alerted to those skulks, those leaps, those claws, The sparkless,…
This miserable scene demands a groan. —John Gay Frankly, I don't care if the billionaire is getting divorced and thus boosting the career of his girlfriend, a “model/spokesperson” with no job and nothing to promote; nor does my concern over celebrity X undergoing surgical procedures leaked as “primarily cosmetic,” if it can be measured quantitatively,…
And sometimes they are birthcries, ancient audience, succulent moon and Milky Way, and sometimes they are prayers, jubilant paths, perilous constellations, this spirited, whirling jewelry I must wear, these bride-shy or ruffian hoops, this work-that-must-be-done in beauty, in beauty— Look, my dance is a willingness away from poverty's arrows, all the known hells, a brisk…
You catch my breath with your waking a calf moves closer to its mother (slumbering) some brother leaves his home to bring me what I need. It doesn't work & I call you back— Sugar—I call you Sugar no rest in my slumber no sugar in my bowl
The harvest is past, the summer is ended, and we are not saved. —Jeremiah 8:20 The morning before it happens at the rim of the field I wait for the call: the hard ground, the lull, and all around, on the verge the lit houses lie sorted and stored. And now the sound of arrowheads…
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